The Summerland by T. L. Schaefer Page B

babble about money? And then it clicked. The ‘personal effects’ and ‘circumstances’ the Sheriff had referred to the first time she’d spoken with him. Clenching her jaw tightly, she paid the checkout clerk, then double-timed it back to her room to stow the groceries. With a grim smile of anticipation, she gathered up her notes, leaving word with the front desk to accept her Fed Ex package, then set out for the Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Bill Ashton had some explaining to do.
    * * * *
    When Arden returned to her room sixty minutes later the birth of a full-scale migraine was lurking directly beneath her left eyebrow. Massaging her temple, she picked up her laptop from the front desk and proceeded to her room for about twenty Motrin and some peace.
    The press had found out about the money. Hell, if the town gossips had been talking about it, it just stood to reason that the media would also know. Apparently Stumpy, whoever he was, had been quite busy the night before, because cameras and microphones inundated her the minute she stepped out of her rental car.
    They knew who she was. That was the most disturbing part of all. She had never even met this Stumpy person and couldn’t begin to imagine why he would give her description to the press. And now her face would be broadcast statewide by lunchtime, which was only a few minutes away.
    The only good thing to come out of the morning was the fact that the press hadn’t connected Sam’s disappearance with the murdered women. They were more than happy to run two scandalous stories rather than one, and all from the relative quiet of a respectable small town.
    Then again, Samantha’s connection to the dead girls was only her theory, but she knew Sam well enough to know that she never would have left money if she’d had the opportunity to run with it, pursuing feds or not. It also explained why she hadn’t come to see Arden. She had the money; she’d just needed a quick car. Why should she even go in to ask her sister for a loan or if she was doing all right, or even to say ‘to hell with you, bitch, I’m taking your car.’
    Arden shook her head, then popped four Motrin. She supposed it was a fortuitous quirk of fate that she’d been unable to secure lodging in the same hotels as the media. At least here she would be safe from their prying eyes and cameras. The Turners had already assured her of that when she’d picked up her laptop. The gods had been smiling on her.
    Snapping on the television, she sunk down into the comfortable armchair and waited for the worst. It wasn’t pretty. She looked harried and stressed and almost a little crazy as she battled the throng of reporters in her quest for the front doors to the Sheriff’s Department. A wall of flesh wearing the nameplate Brewster had come to her rescue, pulling her into the Sheriff’s office while holding the press at bay. Unfortunately, once she was inside no one could decide what to do with her.
    The Sheriff was at the crime scene, looking over some new evidence, they said. No, they couldn’t tell her anything about the case, but she was welcome to sit and wait for Sheriff Ashton’s return if she wished.
    Arden mulled it over for about thirty seconds before enlisting the aid of Deputy Brewster. While he wouldn’t tell her anything, or even confirm what she already knew, he was kind enough to offer to take her back to her accommodations. She gladly accepted, knowing full well that the members of the press were waiting for her.
    She muted the television, then slumped back in the chair. This whole situation was getting too weird. She was almost ready to just take her car and head back to L.A., Samantha or no Samantha. But she wouldn’t. Her damned sense of duty and honor and family prevented her doing anything so irresponsible. So she would stick and just see what happened.
    The jangling of the telephone right next to her head knocked her out of her reverie, startling her with its intensity.